


Helpless

by LeapAngstily



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Crying men, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Monto is worse than a kicked puppy, Pain with Peerlo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-02-03 00:55:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1725242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/pseuds/LeapAngstily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andrea sees Riccardo going down, being carried away, fighting to stay strong, and nothing has ever made him feel so absolutely helpless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Helpless

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not over Monto’s injury. I’ll never be over Monto’s injury. This is the trauma that I’ll be telling about to my shrink years from now. Just saying…

It takes Andrea a while to realize what is happening when Riccardo goes down. First it seems like a regular knock, then there is the realization that something is wrong, then finally the  _fuck he’s not getting up_.  
  
By the time he comes down from the inevitable shock, the team doctors are fussing over Riccardo and their teammates are loitering around with worried looks on their faces.  
  
Andrea takes a step closer, then another, hears the desolate  _“I broke it”_ , and there is nothing he would like to do more than to pick Riccardo up and hug him until everything is fine again.  
  
He wants to follow the medics when Riccardo is stretchered off, just to be with him at the hospital, to make sure everything will be alright, but Cesare holds him back resolutely.  
  
Too many cameras on Riccardo, too many people monitoring his situation, too many outsiders asking  _why_  Andrea is with him when he is supposed to be at the stadium.  
  
“You’ll have time. Later.”  
  
Cesare knows the best. He wants to be by Riccardo’s side almost as much as Andrea does.  
  
Andrea has never felt so helpless.  
  
He misses most of the remaining game, too worried to pay attention to the players on the pitch. He tries to call Riccardo during halftime, only to find his phone abandoned in the dressing room along with the rest of his belongings.  
  
Nobody pays him any mind when he packs Riccardo’s bag and moves it next to his own so he can take them both back to the hotel once the match is over.  
  
Fractured tibia, most likely, Cesare tells them after the second half, having received a call from one of the doctors. No World Cup for Riccardo. World Cup without Riccardo for Andrea.  
  
Riccardo is staying at the hotel with them, flying back to Milan first thing in the morning. Andrea is going to Coverciano with the rest of the team. So little time and even that is taken from them because every player wants to see Riccardo, to cheer him up and assure him he will be fine.  
  
Of course he will be: Riccardo is strong, maybe the strongest person Andrea has ever met. But that is the problem, because even the strongest man needs to be allowed a chance to be  _weak_.  
  
Andrea waits outside Riccardo’s door until Cesare ushers the last of his players out – Claudio gives Andrea a knowing look as he passes by, the only one to actually acknowledge him – before finally slipping in, taking in the sight of Riccardo lying on the large bed, his leg tied up in a preliminary cast, waiting for further examination.  
  
“Thought you weren’t coming at all,” Riccardo’s smile does not look exactly forced, but it is tired: he was probably pumped full of painkillers at the hospital, drugged out of the physical pain but not the emotional.  
  
“Don’t be silly,” Andrea grunts, sitting down on the bed and touching Riccardo’s hair gently, “How are you feeling?”  
  
“Like hell, thanks for asking,” Riccardo sighs, his eyes drooping as he leans into Andrea’s touch, “If I believed in God, I’d say he must really hate me.”  
  
It strikes Andrea how  _normal_  Riccardo sounds, as if his season did not just come to an untimely end because of one unlucky challenge. No tears, no anger, no bitterness, just soft humming noise telling Andrea he has accepted his fate.  
  
It bothers Andrea to no end. It is not right. Riccardo should not be this calm.  
  
“You’ll have other chances – I was older than you are now in South Africa and I’m still here,” he tries out the façade, taking an unfair blow on purpose, knowing this is the last thing he should be bringing up.  
  
“Now you’re being silly. I’m not you: this was it for me, my big chance,” Riccardo chuckles humourlessly, but he still does not sound particularly upset, “But I’m fine, it’s not like I was gonna make a big difference anyways—”  
  
“Riccardo, shut up!” Andrea snaps, retracting his fingers from Riccardo’s hair and shaking his shoulder forcefully. He has never raised his voice with Riccardo before: there has been no need until now.  
  
But now, now he just needs Riccardo to show what he is feeling, no matter how painful the initial shock will be. Because this might be Andrea’s one and only chance to reach Riccardo, the real Riccardo, before flying to Brazil with the team.  
  
Without Riccardo.  
  
Riccardo quiets down, a faraway look crossing over his features before going back to neutrality. Andrea leans down to brush his lips against Riccardo’s when the silence stretches, only slightly surprised when Riccardo does not return the kiss.  
  
“You don’t need to be strong for me,” he reminds his lover quietly, caressing his cheek as he sits up again, searching Riccardo’s face for any signs of giving up, letting go, “Don’t you trust me, Riccardo?”  
  
“What good would it do?” Riccardo asks quietly, using his elbows to drag himself into a half-sitting position, his voice cracking for the first time as he continues, “There’s no one to blame, it was just bad luck, and being upset’s not gonna change a damn thing!”  
  
But now there are tears gathering in his eyes, the same tears he did not shed on the pitch even when he was hurting the most, when he realized he would not be going to Brazil with the rest of the team.  
  
“What good does keeping it all in do?” Andrea urges Riccardo on gently, helping him to sit up properly, careful not to touch his bandaged leg as he pulls him against his chest, “You’ll be fine, I know you will. But it’s alright to be sad in the meantime. Be miserable. Be furious. Be whatever you feel like.”  
  
That does it: Riccardo sniffles against Andrea’s shirt, grips the fabric tightly, tight enough to make his knuckles turn white, and then the first sobs escape his lips, his shoulders shaking in Andrea’s embrace until they take over his whole body.  
  
“It’s not fair,” Riccardo hiccups against his chest when the sobs finally begin to subside, Andrea’s shirt wet from his tears by now, “Not fair, not fair, not fair…”  
  
He would probably keep repeating it, but the sobs take over again, a new bout of tears rushing out of his eyes.  
  
It is not pretty crying – not like the quiet tears of disappointment after they lost to Spain two years ago – but full-out bawling, with bloodshot eyes and runny nose and desperate gasps in effort to just keep breathing.  
  
Andrea is beyond relieved, because he knows Riccardo needs this, but at the same time he feels completely useless, because there is nothing he can do to make this easier for his lover, nothing he can say to make things right.  
  
The feeling of helplessness washes over him again, and suddenly there are tears in his eyes as well. He takes a deep breath that gets stuck in his throat, and he tightens his hold around Riccardo’s shoulders, making sure he is still there, safe and real and  _right_.  
  
He presses his face into Riccardo’s hair when he cannot hold the tears anymore, letting them fall into the soft curls, breathing in the familiar scent that always makes him feel like home.  
  
“I’m gonna miss you so much,” he whispers and presses a soft kiss on top of Riccardo’s head, “What am I gonna do without you out there?”  
  
Riccardo looks up from Andrea’s chest, his eyes puffy and tears still streaming down his face. He wipes his nose with the back of his hand before finally finding his voice again, “You’re gonna win the World Cup, of course. Silly.”  
  
And when Riccardo lifts his hands to Andrea’s face to wipe away the quiet tears from his cheeks, to kiss his lips reassuringly, Andrea wonders which one of them really needed the comfort tonight.


End file.
